Chapter Two

7:10 a.m. Saturday 14th

In Queens, Gus had slept past his alarm and was running late. He hurried up the street, his stiff muscles giving him grief, but Jim usually arrived at the gym just after he opened up or even as he was unlocking the door, and he didn't want to disappoint the man. He expected to see Jim and Hank sitting by the door waiting, but as he rounded the corner he could see the steps were empty. Gus slowed gratefully and took it at a more leisurely pace.

Thirty minutes later he tipped the second cup of coffee down the sink, perhaps Jim had pulled an extra tour of duty.

9:09 a.m. Saturday 14th

Tired from walking and feeling lightheaded, the man lowered himself to the ground amid the stench of household waste. His face contorted in disgust, and he wondered how long it would take him to get used to it. "Better hope you're not here long enough to get used to it," he said out loud. He wished uselessly for a bottle of water, and his stomach growled. The dog settled by his leg and put his head on the man's knee. He hadn't the heart to push it off. The poor thing seemed as lost as he was.

The question of who he was hammered at him with every thump in his head, and he gave himself some time to see if he held clues on his person.

He ran his hands over his face. An image came to mind, fair hair, blue eyes, fair skin. His hair was short and stood up in spikes, but whether that was normal, or from whatever adventure had landed him here, he had no idea. He felt his hands, no jewelry, but there was a watch, round face on a leather strap. He vaguely remembered trying to read it when he first woke and wondered yet again what time it was. He felt certain that it had been night when he first woke and that now it was day. He took a couple of wary steps from the wall, moving his weight only when he knew the ground under his foot was secure. Yes, he could feel the sun warm on his face. He fingered the wound on the back of his head. He blinked, looking around him again, forcing himself to wonder when his sight would clear, rather than if. The birds called endlessly.

He reached out and found the wall again, grateful for the shade, and checked his clothing. Good quality trench coat, it stank, and he wondered for a minute if he was a bum - perhaps he had fallen asleep in a dumpster and been shipped over here? He smiled at his personal joke as he continued his exploration. The fabric of his jacket matched his trousers, his shirt had folded cuffs and he was wearing a tie. No, most bums didn't wear suits and ties. He loosened the tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Instead of shoes, he wore boots, worn in but not down in the heel. The laces matched, fit properly, and weren't frayed. There was a pager on his belt. For a moment he hoped for an incoming message but then groaned as he realized he wouldn't be able to read the screen at the moment. He fingered it wistfully, perhaps even now the screen was lit up with a message, perhaps it started with his name? Even "Hi Jack, where are you?" would be a very welcome message right now. He put the pager back on his belt and continued his search.

Why would he have a pager and no cell phone? Traveling salesman? Health freak who believed cell phones caused brain cancer? He smiled. He hoped the pager was charged, perhaps someone would start looking for him if they paged and he didn't call.

There were some papers in his pockets, he touched the surface and felt the lines of a handwritten note and one that was smooth - printed he supposed. Both were useless right now and he tucked them back in for later. He found a wallet in his breast pocket. It was fat and heavy, leather by the feel of it. Inside he found several plastic cards, some with raised numbers - credit cards. His blood quickened. Even in the pitch black, he should be able to make out the name on the card from the raised letters. Carefully he ran his fingers over the raised section. There were two distinct lines, name below, numbers above, he could see it in his mind's eye. One was AMEX, one was Visa, he was sure and his hope rose. He followed the bottom line trying to force images of letters to come to his mind. Nothing. He strained further, emptying his mind, controlling his breathing and trying again and again to picture the name on the card. His jaw clenched and his brow furrowed deeply. They were just too small. His fingers couldn't even make out where individual letters began and ended. "Argh!" His growl erupted and he hurled the card away from him with a shout. The dog jumped up, whining and pressed harder into the man's side. "It's okay, shh, it's okay Fido." He ran his hand over the dog's head a couple of times until it lay down again.

He gripped the wallet and searched it again. Several other cards, all smooth, all useless in the dark. He held the one he found tucked into a plastic sleeve and ran his thumb over the surface. He was probably holding his driver's license. It would have a picture of his face, his name and address. He bowed his head and the loss swept over him. His head hurt, he was thirsty. He couldn't read his own ID and had no idea if anyone was looking for him.

9:15 a.m. Saturday 14th

Across the water, the city of Manhattan took a Saturday. Couples went to the market to shop and browse. Mothers dropped daughters at ballet class. Fathers took sons to baseball practice. Cops, released from their weekday tours, passed command to those hauling the weekend shift. And no one missed the man who was weekending at the dump.

9:20 a.m. Saturday 14th

The man at the dump sat, not yet ready to tuck the wallet back into his jacket. He wondered if there were photos of loved ones. A wife? Children? He touched the ring finger of his left hand. Nothing, but perhaps he just didn't believe in wedding rings for men? He shook his head, he had no idea. Maybe a girlfriend? He fingered the plastic sleeves inside the leather trying to bring to mind what must be in them. But it was like straining against the air, nothing budged, nothing knocked up against his battering questions. No images came to mind of the wallet, photo, or people.

He delved into the money compartment, bills only. He smoothed the bills out and counted them. The soft sheaves were well used, nothing like fresh new bills from a bank, and there were ten of them. He tucked them back in, wondering if he had ten dollars in his hand or a thousand, probably somewhere in between.

The wallet fit comfortably back into his jacket.

The man stood again, one hand on the wall. He could do this; he could find his way out of here. He ran a hand over his face and the back of his head. Whatever had affected his eyes would have to let up soon, and he'd be able to find out who he was and get everything sorted out. He began to walk the perimeter.

The temperature was rising. He took off the coat, loosened his tie further, but was reluctant to take off the jacket. If he was going to go touring a dump, at least he'd be presentable.

2.57 p.m. Saturday 14th

The dog panted beside him. The man sunk to his knees in the garbage. With a grunt, he lifted his leg up and over, finding a more solid stretch of ground in front of him. He was determined to keep walking until he found the gate. The wall afforded no shade now, the sun beat down, and he stared up at it, angry he could feel the heat on his face and not see the light. There was no shelter to be found, unless he wanted to burrow into the filth of Manhattan, but he wasn't that low yet. He used his coat like an umbrella as he walked on along the wall. The dog hadn't been any trouble, in fact, he was grateful it stuck close to him, he felt marginally less alone.

Just as he was appreciating the dog, the damn thing started to get in his way, planting itself in front of him and refusing to budge. He cursed and tried to move around it but the stupid thing stepped in front of him again as he took his next step and he landed on his hands and knees. "Go!" he told it, pointing away from the wall. If the animal wasn't going to be a help, he'd rather it left. It went and sat, whining a few feet away. The man stood, pleased. His next step landed him knee deep in foul salty water, it splashed all the way to his face and he stumbled, just saving himself from a full dunking by gripping the wall and the dog that had snuck back in and ducked in under his arm.

Gasping he waited for his heart to stop racing while his mind wrapped itself around what was in front of him. The water was seeping in from under the retaining wall. He was reluctant to wade through the foul mix of sea water and detritus. There was no way to tell how deep it would get, and he was aware that he wasn't at his full strength. Finally he gave in, pulled his coat back on and followed the dog, one hand on its back, the other stretched out in front in case he fell.

They'd been moving through the garbage for about half an hour when the man stopped, stood, and cocked his head. A motor, a boat, it came closer, approaching the landfill. The man waved his arms, shouted, and stumbled back toward the sound of the boat, but it in moments he lost it, the sound of the flapping coat disappeared in the wind, the gulls, and the panting dog. He rubbed his face, pressed his hands to his eyes, and fought his emotions. He wasn't going to give up. He was in New York for God's sake, this he did know, and it was unthinkable that in one of the most populous cities on the planet, he couldn't find his way back to people, to civilization. He could do anything he set his mind to, he knew that. The boat going past - he should have been at the wall – but here he was well away, following the freaking dog and he cursed it angrily. He needed to go back to the wall and next time - if he met another patch of water - he'd wade, disgusting or not, he couldn't afford to let another opportunity for rescue go by.

But, even as he turned in a 360 degree circle, the truth hit him. With his eyes out of commission, unless a boat did go by, he couldn't figure out which way the water lay. The gulls filled the air with noise, and the lapping of the waves was impossible to pick out. His hands trembled with frustration and anger.

The dog sidled back up, seemingly unaware of the blame the man was heaping on it, and tried to continue leading him. "Just get me to the freaking wall," he muttered to the dog under his breath and, with no alternative in view, he followed it. He tried not to think about hypodermic needles, infections, and the bacteria that was busily devouring the refuse and would happily devour him too, if he stayed still long enough. Surprisingly the dog brought him back to the retaining wall after an hour of scrambling through garbage and rocks. The man kept walking, committing, again, to staying with the wall until he was out of this place.

He allowed himself a rest at what he thought was two hour intervals. He continued walking the retainer of the dump all day long. When the last of the gulls left for their roosts, he continued, his steps slower but no less determined.

10.43 p.m. Saturday 14th

The pool hall sure was alive tonight. Cracker Jack smiled as a shiny new couple entered and stood at the bar, ripe for the plucking. Len dug his elbow into Jack's side. "They look sweet," he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Within an hour, they had the swaggering young fellow betting in the hundreds as his girlfriend watched wide-eyed. Cracker and Len had let him win the first two rounds, and he was confident he would beat them again. Soon he would make the bet worthwhile, and Cracker would open the throttle, clearing the green in one, maybe two, passes.

When it was done, as he tucked his share of the winnings into his sleeve, he looked around the smoky room again. A friendly game would be welcome now. Jimmy D had said he might show up tonight. Cracker couldn't see the blonde head in the crowd but there was time, maybe he would show later.

10:44 p.m. Saturday

The man shivered. His thirst was rabid and he was seriously hungry now. His head felt heavier than the rest of him. He leaned over to pull the kinks from his back - he hadn't sat down for several hours. He had begun taking his break standing up and leaning against the wall after he had dozed for a moment, and something had sunk sharp teeth into his hand. He rubbed the spot and fresh blood flowed. He imagined rats the size of small dogs circling and decided to keep walking. How big could a landfill be?

3.05 a.m. Sunday 24th

The dog barked. It lunged, snapped up a small grey body and gave it a shake, dropped the limp form on the ground and snarled as smaller ones scurried away. Their shiny black eyes watched from hidey holes as the dog curled up next to the man again. When the dog's eyes closed, they scurried forward to nuzzle at their mother but she didn't move, didn't give them the comforting squeaks they sought, and soon they left.

The dog was unfailing in its vigil. Tired, hungry, thirsty, still it didn't leave the man's side. On and off all day and all night, it walked when the man walked, it held vigil when he rested. Now the man huddled under the cover of the coat, shivering and making fearful sounds as he slept, and the dog left his side only to widen the circle of the sleek fat rats that saw a fresh meal. It killed half a dozen and scared away many more, while the man slumbered oblivious.

When the man finally rose again and began to head off disoriented, the dog steered him back to the wall and together they walked on.

After walking several hours in the night and several more in the morning, the man fell to his knees again. A few more steps and he decided to pitch his tent, rats or no rats he needed rest. He sat with his back to the wall, his knees up, and tucked the coat around him, making a secure little room. He hardly noticed the smell. The dog whined and he opened a flap. "Okay, come in." The dog scooted in and laid its head in the man's lap. "You better be a girl dog, Fido." But the dog was already asleep.

9:10 a.m. Sunday 15th

He had walked for hours since the sun had risen. The cries of the gulls rang in his head, layered over the buzz of a fever and the beat of his heart. He slowed, strained, listened. The buzz in his head wasn't internal, the sound separated itself and he realized it was a motor. He held himself up at the wall and waved both arms in the air, calling out, but his voice was hoarse and weak. The dog settled down beside him. He wanted to kick the dog. "Bark, you're a dog, fucking bark for me!" he shouted his frustration at the dog, who gave him a baleful look and began to bark. The man took off his coat and flapped it in the wind over the wall hoping to be seen. The dog barked louder. But the boat was a tug boat, rushing out to rescue some corporate executives who had managed to get stranded in the river within ten minutes of picking up their rented boat. No one saw the man's desperate attempts or heard the dog. The driver was glancing instead, at the penthouse magazine his predecessor had left on board last night. In the dump, by the retaining wall, the wind gusted and snatched the man's coat from his hands, flying it up high, like a kite into the air and over toward the city.

The coat was gone into the black abyss, the boat passed and hope was no more than a tattered wish. The man felt hot tears form in his eyes. He blinked them away. He needed to conserve all the water in his body. He set off along the wall. It could not go on forever.

9:15 a.m. Sunday 15th

Across the water in Manhattan, joggers made their rounds of Central Park, stopping at drinking fountains to wet their faces. They took long pulls from bottles of specially formulated water that drove away any chance of dehydration.

10:20 am Sunday 15th

In an apartment overlooking the park, a woman rolled over in her bed and watched her new lover walk into the bathroom. She compared him to the man she'd left only a few weeks ago, too serious by half but a great lover. She wondered idly where he was now and who he had woken up with.

11:59 a.m. Sunday 15th

In the park opposite the landfill, too far for the eye to make out trees let alone individual people, families set out picnic blankets and argued about the contents of their baskets. Kids played ball and dogs romped, enjoying the freedom of the park. Parents smiled, watching their children.

4:00 p.m. Sunday 15th

Lying in the shade of the dump wall, he dozed on and off. He dreamed of walking in the dark through garbage and of dying people. He dreamed of walking through the streets of New York, feeling strong, powerful, gazing up at the buildings, and feeling like he was part of a great thing. He dreamed of guns shooting and people shouting. He dreamed of faces he didn't recognize. He dreamed of asking someone over and over again, "Who am I? Tell me or you're going away for a very long time." He dreamed of priests in pulpits describing hell, and some part of him wondered what he had done to be sent here.

5:23 a.m. Monday 16th

The man woke from a daze with the clash of thunder. His head jerked back and hit the wall, bringing fireworks to his eyes and renewing the thudding ache from his injuries. With the fireworks came a renewed expectation that his sight would clear, and he looked around seeking the lightning that must accompany the thunder. Nothing breached his darkness. "No, no, no." He held his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. It was so dark he felt like his mind was slipping from his grasp, and he couldn't see to pick it up. His stomach had long since shrunk to a rock in the centre of his body, now it burned as acid began to attack his own flesh. He was so thirsty he felt he would go mad if he didn't get some water soon. He'd begun searching the garbage for bottles, containers, anything that might give him some moisture for his rapidly shriveling body. But all he'd gotten for his efforts was cuts on his hands from sharp edges and filth he couldn't even imagine.

Now he sat, head in hands, and prayed for help. He had no idea how long he'd been here, why he was here, how long this would last. His mind played with the idea that perhaps he would die here. The clash of thunder that had woken him was only the beginning. Crack! Another bolt of lightning lit the sky and reflected off his wide unseeing eyes. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The man smiled to himself at memories that surfaced: dancing, as a child, in a red Indian costume praying to the Rain God, bringing up the dust with his feet, his friends and he so earnest in their game. He blinked, remembering how disappointed they had been that the rain hadn't come. He couldn't have been more than four or five, crying to his Mom. Why? Why didn't the Rain God hear them? He even remembered her answer. Delay is not denial, sweetie, sometimes you get what you ask for only when you truly need it.

Another crash, and then the blessed sound of rain. It fell lightly at first, sprinkling his upturned face lightly, then the drops grew larger and he gathered them in his hands and drank. When his thirst was sated, he held his hands out and the dog came to lick gratefully. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and washed dirt from his face and hands. Finally he sat, eyes closed and immersed himself in the sound, the texture, the wetness of the storm. He slept in between bouts of shivering when the breeze picked up and wove its way between his clothes to find his bones.

6:28 a.m. Monday 16th

The sun rose over New York. Steam lifted from the streets and pearled on car windows.

7:29 a.m. Monday 16th

The hot sun shone on dry pavement. The only sign of the rain was slightly refreshed foliage in the parks and a new fringe of green on the grass.

In the dump, the rats had known to drink their fill during the storm, for now, it was as if it had never rained and so it would be until the next fall of life giving water from the heavens.

The man woke, remembering a dream of rain. He stood on unsteady legs and put his hand to the wall. He waited while the dog stretched and shook itself then stepped in front of him. They continued.

In his weakened state, the man walked quite slowly. Despite the hand on the wall, and the dog beside him, he fell to his knees every twenty or thirty steps. He'd lost his coat, and there was no escape from the relentless sun. His breath came in small, shallow sips. The dog staggered as the man slipped on a plastic garbage bag and came down on top. It turned to aid the man in getting to his feet, but he had slid out of consciousness with his fall and the latest jolt to his head injury. The dog nudged him, anxious, the scent of the rats was close. They still followed, watching, waiting for their chance, and it had been many hours since the dog had managed to catch the last one. Its own legs shook and it laid its head on the man's leg, closed its eyes to rest.

8:05 a.m. Monday 16th

The man jerked awake and away from the pain in his hand where the rat had bitten him again. He pulled his hand in close and rocked, crying like a child but there were no tears from his eyes. The dog shivered and cuddled in close.